


Hour of the Wolf

by Zhangers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Azor Ahug the Hug That Was Promised, Crypts of Winterfell, Dark Sansa, F/M, Gen, R+L, That bloody dragonbone dagger, The Long Night, season 6 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:40:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6938230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhangers/pseuds/Zhangers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark is strong with her brother. So when Lord Petyr Baelish comes north seeking a second chance, Sansa is not so inclined to give it. Some crimes are too grave to be forgiven, no matter how sweet the gift he brings. But when the tide of war begins to turn against them, the last of the Starks find themselves in dire need of that scorned gift. Things that were once freely offered are no longer. Fortunately, Lord Baelish would sell anything to anyone, for the right price. And Sansa Stark no longer the little girl she once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Men Don't Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She needed him to be strong – as strong as she was trying to be. It was strange to find herself fired with anger and vengeance when he remained so cold. But they must not fight each other when they were all they had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains brief but graphic descriptions of sexual assault. Please skip this chapter if this will effect you.

The atmosphere in the long hall turned at Jon's nod, no matter how reluctantly he gave it. At least it seemed this way to Sansa. The air seemed to shift, and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled with it. She did not have a name for what she felt. It was equal parts fear and excitement and dread. 

“You'll need more men to start with,” said Tormund Giantsbane, voicing the thought that was weighing on all of their minds. 

“Aye, I need more men,” agreed Jon darkly. “I need three thousand more men just to match his numbers.”

“More than that. You'll want to make a clean end. And a fast one. You know what is coming.”

The wildling chief's expression darkened. 

Sansa knew what he meant. Winter, and the dead men that came with it. They had spoken of the wights the night before. All of their secrets had spilled out in front of that blazing fire. She told him all her tragedies, whispering them into his ear as he held her, not quite sobbing. And he in turn told her... 

She believed him, of course she did. Jon would not lie to her about that. But it did not seem real. Wights and dead men rising again – those were the stuff of ghost stories. And had her brother really died? He looked alive to her. He felt alive to her. 

He was not the same, of course. But neither was she. They had seen too much of the world since they were both children behind the walls of Winterfell. Jon had always been quiet and a little bitter even as a boy, but this fear and helplessness was new to her. She needed him to be strong – as strong as she was trying to be. It was strange to find herself fired with anger and vengeance when he remained so cold. But they must not fight each other when they were all they had. 

“We'll find the men,” she said, squeezing his hand and trying to sound reassuring as well as reassured. “We'll take them from him. The Boltons are only feared, not loved. The north remembers what they did. They will rally to you. You only need to ask.”

Jon Snow shook his head, then turned his dark, shadowed eyes on her bright blue ones. It was like looking into two dark pits that go on forever, and behind them there was - nothing. Nothing that stretched on for miles. She looked away.

“No,” he said. “They will support you, Sansa. I am not a Stark. But you are. You have to rally them.”

“Do you think they will follow a woman into battle?” 

It was Brienne of Tarth who had spoken. She was frowning deeply, which made her plain, earnest face seem even harsher. She did not look convinced. 

“No more than your pretty sister could lead the charge,” said Tormund. 

Sansa bristled at the insult from the wild man, but knew that it was true. She tried to imagine herself as Nymeria, but could only picture Arya instead. What she would not give to have her here, too. She needed a little of her sister's stubbornness, just now. And Jon had always preferred Arya. Their little sister could surely touch Jon where she, Sansa, could not. 

“No,” agreed Jon. “But they'll want to know who they're fighting for. They're want to know who they're putting on that seat when it's all over. They won't do it for Ned Stark's bastard. But they will for his eldest trueborn daughter.”

Rickon's name and claim seemed to hang in the air between them, and they were both afraid to say it, lest some they cast a terrible spell upon it. It was best to assume nothing, neither the worst nor the best. 

“Where should we go first? Who can we trust?”

“Precious few, my Lady,” said Edd Tollet. “The Boltons might skin people, but the Thenns eat them. Everybody hates the Wildlings. Meaning no offence, Tormund. They'll not want to fight side by side with them. And the further north you go, the more they hate. The Umbers will probably stab you at dinner, if you dare bring it up.”

“Not the Umbers,” agreed Jon. “And the Karstarks might be kin, but we lost them when Robb executed their Lord.”

“Manderlys? They owe our family everything.” 

Sansa remembered the old tale, of how the Starks aided the Manderlys in their hour of need, had rescued them from the wars in the Reach and had granted them lands at White Harbour. The harbour was rich, and she remembered a fat, jovial lord who had arrived at Winterfell for Rickon's birth with a large retenue of men and a troop of cooks. 

“Perhaps. But I know where we should go first. Edd – fetch me quill and ink. I need to send a raven to Bear Island.”

Edd went to fetch the items. 

“House Mormont?” asked Sansa, a little confused. 

She did not know much about the Mormonts, except that the old Lord Commander had been one. And there was a vile rumour, too. It was said their ladies bedded with bears. 

Jon's lips curved into one of his rare little smiles. 

“Stannis had a raven from Lady Lyanna when he was here. A girl of ten. She would not support his cause. She said that there was no King she would follow but a Stark. That was when Stannis offered me... never mind that.”

He trailed off and seemed to be suddenly distant, thinking on something that was for him alone. 

Edd's return broke Jon out of his reverie. The new-made Lord Commander was holding a quill, a slip of parchment and a sealed letter. He began to write. 

“What answer should we give to Ramsay?” asked Sansa. 

“You'd best not give any, if you ask me,” said Tormund. 

“I agree,” said Jon. 

Sansa nodded, feeling an odd mixture of relief and apprehension. Night was falling, the light coming through the narrow windows was slanting and weak, and Sansa was feeling suddenly bone-tired. The arrival of Ramsay's letter had filled her with a mixture of fear and anger that had driven her to an almost manic state. But now that they had decided on a course of action, she was left exhausted, although it was before sundown. Not that there was much difference, this far north. The nights were pitch black, and the days, such as they were, were shades of gloomy grey. 

“I am tired. I need to rest. Excuse me, Jon, I'll leave you to write the letter.”

Sansa stood, and the table got to their feet respectfully, even the huge wildling chief. Brienne and Podrick shadowed her without having to be told. 

The courtyard was a hive of activity. The black brothers were busying themselves with their usual tasks, trying to eke out the last of the daylight. Wood was chopped, the stables raked, swords put to good use in the training yard. There were wildlings at castle black, but the watchmen seemed to keep apart from them, although there was no animosity on either side that Sansa could see. 

Eyes followed her discreetly as she crossed the yard towards the Lord Commander's quarters. As long as they were only looking, she supposed it was no matter. Though the men here were rough and wild, their gazes did not trouble her as much as they might once have. These men were not so monstrous as the ones that she had left. Women were a rare enough sight here, she supposed, and it was no surprise that they stared. There was only her, Brienne, and - 

The Red Woman. 

She heard Brienne fingering her sword behind her a moment before she saw the lady. 

They had seen each other only in passing and at a distance until now. Jon had not made this introduction, which seemed a little odd to her. She had met everyone else of any importance, and yet Jon had not introduced her to the woman who had brought him back. She made herself smile at the lady. She was beautiful, pale-skinned and red of hair, though hers was the red of blood, not Sansa's own auburn. Her eyes were red, too, a pair of rubies with fire and blood in their depths. Brienne hated her, and was terrified of her, and Sansa could see why. 

“Lady Melisandre,” said Sansa. “I should have come to you earlier, to thank you for the service you performed for my brother.”

Those were the right words, she knew. Polite and formal, the familiar song of court that was second nature to her, even here, even now. 

“He is Prince that was Promised,” replied Lady Melisandre in a strange, lilting voice that carried the acccents of the east. “There is nothing that I would not do for him.”

“The Prince that was promised?”

The phrase was not unfamiliar, though she could not recall where she knew it from. Was it an old Targaryen prophecy? Yes, she remembered. it was said that Rhaegar had wished to birth a saviour. It was just the sort of thing that a Red Priestess would believe in. 

The Red Woman had looked deep into Sansa's eyes and held her gaze for longer than was comfortable, never blinking. 

“You do not believe.”

It was not a question. 

“I - “ a lie formed at the tip of her tongue, some deflective courtesy, but she tripped over it. “I - No, I don't. I don't believe in prophecies. Or songs. Or tales.”

“Prophecies are not songs or tales, Sansa Stark. They are older and truer. You think you have opened your eyes. But you have only begun. By the end, you will know it all. You will know the darkness and the light, the ecstasy and the pain. Jon Snow has his part to play in the long night to come. And as do you. Last night, I looked into the flames, and I saw you there by his side.”

It was the sort of thing that Red Priests and Priestesses always said. There had been one in King's Landing, and she had heard some of his mad ramblings. Thoros of Myr, he had been called. He fought in the melee with a flaming sword. They were all fanatics, the fireworshippers, and some said that it had been fireworship that had driven the Mad King that way. But she would not offend the woman in front of her now. She had saved Jon. 

“As you say, Lady Melisandre. I leave the prophesising to you. I know nothing of such things. But I will never forget what you did for my brother.”

Sansa took her leave, before the priestess could trouble her further. 

The Lord Commander's chambers were the best in Castle Black, but the room was still cold and dark. A steward lit a fire n the grate at her behest, mumbling his courtesies and keeping his eyes trained on the floor all the while. 

“Shall I stay with you, my lady?” asked Brienne. 

“No, thank you. I am quite safe here. I trust the Black Brothers.” 

It was true. She did. She felt safer here than she had done anywhere else. And it was not Brienne she wanted, just at that moment. 

Brienne and Podrick bowed their way out of the room, closing the heavy door behind them. Sansa listened as Brienne's armoured footsteps faded away. 

Sansa piled a chair with furs and brought it as close to the fire as she dared. The fire was hot, and her eyes were stinging. She pressed them shut, not to sleep, only to keep the tears from falling. 

Ramsay was standing behind her. There was a dagger in his hand. The cold blade slide against her skin and something ripped that might have been cloth or might have been skin. He pulled her legs apart and thrust into her, pumping and tearing at her insides - 

“Sansa.... Sansa...”

He was calling her name with each thrust. His hands were clamped over her mouth so that she could not cry out her pain no matter how hard she struggled. Hands with ringed fingers. The gold and silver were against her lips, like a kiss in the snow. These were not Ramsay's hands. They were Littlefinger's hands - 

“Sansa...”

Wakefulness came to her all at once. 

She was in an unfamiliar room, staring at a pale face in the darkness. 

She recoiled at once, pulling herself away from the hands that were shaking her gently by the shoulders. 

“You were dreaming,” said Jon. 

He let his hands and his gaze drop away but not before Sansa could see the hurt in them, the apology, and something that might be shame. Her mouth felt dry. She had been screaming. Gods, she hoped she had not been loud. 

“Thank - “ her voice was raw and rough, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you for waking me. It was a nightmare. That's all.”

She wiped her eyes, but the tears had dried long ago. The skin on her cheeks were taut with dried salt, and it hurt to blink. 

“What hour is it? Have I slept long?”

“Half the night,” said Jon. “It's the hour of the wolf.”

Too long. She unwound herself from the tangle of thick furs that she had made into a nest in her sleep. Everything ached. She ought not to have rested in such a position. And she was so awake now that she would surely have no chance of sleeping the rest of the night through. What a stupid thing. 

She stood and stretched out her back, wincing from the pain. Her gown had disarranged itself, creeping up her leg. She tugged and pulled until she was decent again. 

Jon took the other seat by the fire, falling into it rather heavily. 

It was the hour of the wolf, and curiously Jon was still dressed in his leathers and still had a sword by his side. 

“Why are you still awake?” asked Sansa. 

“I don't seem to sleep much these days,” shrugged Jon. “Maybe dead men don't.”

He flashed a fleeting, wan smile. 

“But you eat,” said Sansa. She had seen watched him wolfing down plates of the salted meat that that they served here, boiled grey and leathery. “Disgustingly, I might add.”

He chuckled. 

“You'll have to excuse me, my lady. While you were at Court, I was here forgotting my castle manners among the Brothers and the Free Folk. Aye, I eat. But sleeping is not the same thing. I close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come.”

“So...what do you do at night?”

He shrugs. 

“Ghost and I walked atop the Wall last night.”

So this is what he had been doing. She had wondered where he slept, since he had given her his chambers. After their argument, which she regretted almost at once, Jon had taken his leave of her, bidding her stiffly to rest well. And so she had. There had been no nightmares at all the night before. She had been too tired, and the bed of furs and wool felt softer and warmer than any feather bed. After the weeks of long, hard riding and fearful, frozen nights, she had sunk gratefully into the blankets and slept like death. 

“After that, I spent the rest of the night outside your door. As I was tonight, until I heard you calling.”

Shame and anger overtook her, and she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. 

Jon seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. 

“There's no shame in it,” he said softly. “He hurt you. You won't forget such a thing, for a while at least.”

Sansa shook her head, sending her hair tumbling. 

“If I let him ruin my nights, he will have won.”

“As may be,” replied Jon. “But you need time to -” 

“I am done with waiting for good things to happen to me,” said Sansa. “I don't have time for that. I want justice. I want revenge. I want - everything.”

“I know. But we're not marching on Winterfell tomorrow. Gods, Sansa, you're not the girl I knew.”

It seemed as if he had been waiting to say this for a long time. The words tumbled out of Jon's mouth, and the expression he wore was mixed of wonder and great sorrow. 

Life had not turned out to be a song after all. Did he wish she were still that summer girl? 

“You should not stay outside my door like a guardsman. That is the most boneheaded, ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

“You're mine to protect now.”

“As may be, but you can do that from in front of the fire, at least. Or don't you need warmth either?”

“I need warmth,” said Jon with an urgency that surprised her. “I need it more than ever. But it's hardly proper, me being in your bedchamber. We're not exactly children anymore.”

“Don't be stupid. You're my brother. Stay here tonight at least. I don't want to be alone.”

A moment's hesitation. 

“Of course, if you wish it.”

Jon turned his back while she changed out of her gown. She hurried to the bed, hiding herself beneath the covers. 

“Y-you may turn around now,” said Sansa, her teeth chattering a little. The covers were cold against her skin. 

She heard Jon's low laugh and watched his back as he undid his armour with well-practiced fingers. Layers of leather and wool were discarded until he was standing in front of the fire in only his breeches and a loose undershirt. He turned around, and she gasped. His shirtfront was untied, and she could see a scar high on his chest. 

Jon went to cover it at once. 

“Can I see?”

For a moment, he looked as if he meant to refuse. But then Jon sighed and peeled off the linen shirt. She saw them, stark against his pale skin, the marks where his own Brothers had stabbed him. There were so many. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“A bit. Dead men can still feel pain, it seems.”

She wondered what hurt more, the blades or the betrayal. 

“I have scars, too,” she whispered. 

She sat up and, shivering, showed him. She lifted her shift, and showed him the long red lines that she still wore on her back, and the large bruises at her ribs that were turning to yellow and green. 

She heard his sharp intake of breath from somewhere over her shoulder. 

“Don't sleep in front of the fire. It's a cold bed. Will you hold me?”

She climbed back beneath the covers, moving close to the wall, not knowing if Jon would follow. 

This would definitely not be proper. 

But the mattress behind her dipped with his weight. He kept his distance until she scooted back towards him, her small body fitting perfectly against his. He was warmer than he had any right to be. 

“Hold me,” she reminded him. 

Hesitantly, Jon wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. 

They both sighed. Proper or not, it did feel right. 

-o-

And she was in Winterfell once more. Winterfell, as it had been, before outsiders had ever stepped foot behind her walls. Her lady mother was brushing her hair until it shone like burnished copper. Arya, fidgeting beside her, already dreaming of the muck and mud she would soon put down the front of her dress. In the yard, she could hear the ring of steel. Her father's voice, low and incouraging. Robb's honest laughter. Her little brothers, Bran and Rickon. And Jon Snow, apart from the rest. 

“Sansa...”

Bran. That was Bran's voice calling. And she was not in her mother's chamber. She was in the Godswood, lying beneath the shade of the blood-red leaves. 

-o-

Sansa was the first to wake, several hours later in the grey dawn. 

Jon was wrong. Dead men did sleep after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, I cried at that hug. Cried like a little girl. Azor Ahug! The Hug that Was Promised!
> 
> This fic departs from the end of season 6, episode 4 and will start becoming AU as soon as episode 5 airs. 
> 
> Please read on if you enjoy any of the following:  
> \- R+L  
> \- The Crypts of Winterfell  
> \- The Queen in the North  
> \- Littlefinger's dragonbone dagger  
> \- Nissa Nissa theories  
> \- Lyanna Mormont, the sassiest little girl in Westeros
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: And post-episode 5...yep, mad AU times ahead. 
> 
>  
> 
> -Zhangers


	2. Giftbearer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks need to muster more men. Littlefinger's offer may change everything, but gifts are never truly free. Meanwhile, an aswer arrives from Bear Island.

Coming soon!


End file.
